Holmes for Christmas and New Year's
by Lucillia
Summary: For Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness. 31 days, 31 prompts, 31 short stories about our favorite detective and his friends.
1. December 1st

**1. Silent Night.**

For the first time in more than a fortnight, there had been no explosions rattling one out of a sound sleep, no banging wardrobe doors or other doors for that matter, no pacing of feet going back and forth across the sitting room in the wee hours before dawn, and no violin music coming from 221B Baker Street at an ungodly hour. There were no yells for Watson, nor any cries for Mrs. Hudson to deal with a domestic issue well past her bedtime, nor any late-night arrivals from Scotland Yard which couldn't afford to sleep because crime never did. In fact, there was a seemingly unnatural stillness coming from 221 Baker Street which failed to be attacked by murderers, felons, or even mere boys with rocks as happened far too often for anyone's comfort..

It was the first completely silent night in a long while, and Sherlock Holmes' next-door neighbor who had learned to sleep through anything but this found that he was completely unable to enjoy it.


	2. December 2nd

**From Sparky Dorian:**

**2. 221B has to be fumigated (or whatever a 19th century equivalent of that is). Where do Holmes and Watson stay, and how do they feel about it?**

"And, you're completely sure this will work?" Holmes asked his long-time housekeeper who had suggested a rather radical remedy for the problem he'd inadvertently brought home from one of his forays into the less affluent side of London.

"Oh yes, it worked for Mrs. Turner next door." Mrs. Hudson replied as the young Irregular that she'd recruited to help deal with the problem set out the odd looking equipment that Mrs. Hudson required for this remedy which was as far from "folk" as could be, considering the fact that several of the necessary supplies had come from a chemist.

"Watson, put on something you wouldn't mind disposing of, we're leaving!" Holmes called to his friend who was scratching at one of hundreds of tiny red bumps that graced his body, deciding to trust Mrs. Hudson in this instance. The chemicals that Mrs. Hudson required were capable of dropping an elephant after all, and what needed to be dropped was much smaller than an elephant though a great deal more pernicious.

"Why should I wear something I wouldn't mind disposing of?" Watson asked, looking slightly confused. "If we're going somewhere while Mrs. Hudson has the building doused in noxious chemicals, shouldn't I pack?"

"No, you should not pack. Doing so would only re-infest our flat when we return." Holmes replied.

"Where will we be staying?" Watson asked, knowing that both of them were a bit short on money due to the fact that Holmes had taken on several cases on a pro bono basis and was unwilling to part with some of his more prized curios for something so plebeian as money and he himself made some spectacularly poor investments recently.

"Since imposing on Mycroft would be a painful venture for all involved, I decided that we should avail ourselves of one of the boltholes I have scattered around the city." Holmes replied.

"Boltholes?" Watson asked, aware that Holmes had spent many nights away from home, but unaware that his friend had semi-permanent digs elsewhere, having figured that Holmes found accommodations as he needed them. It would explain how the man was short on money despite the fact that he'd been paid in gold on more than one occasion in the past.

"I'll explain on the way." Holmes said before turning towards his room in order to change into something he wouldn't mind ridding himself of.

Soon, Holmes and Watson were prepared to depart, dressed more shabbily than normal. Watson was idly scratching at a small number of red marks that graced his neck, compliments of a blood-sucker that was not a vampire. After taking their leave of Mrs. Hudson and the young Irregular, the two departed with the hopes that the problem would be dealt with by the time they returned.

"Don't bring any more bedbugs with you when you come back!" Mrs. Hudson called after the two men as they left.

A couple hours later, while Holmes and Watson sat in a small enclosed space that was meant to look a bit homey which had been carved out of the storage area of a department store and partook of a paltry meal of tinned soup which had been cooked over the smouldering remains of the clothing they'd arrived in, a cold, damp, and rather miserable Watson who was wearing a suit that looked as if it had been tailored for Mycroft turned to Holmes and said "This is all your fault!". An equally cold and damp Holmes, knowing that this fact was irrefutable, chose to say nothing.


	3. December 3rd

**From She Who Scrawls:**

**December 3: The Story of the Singing Alligator**

Few things ever stumped Sherlock Holmes, but one strange artifact that washed up from a distant shore that neither Holmes nor I may reach did. It is understandable under the circumstances, because I myself could not find a purpose for this strange artifact.

Over a period of several months in 1896, Mycroft had brought a sizable number of items which had appeared during the time travel experiments of one Professor Bell to Sherlock to be identified as a form of intellectual puzzle. Normally, he would divine the purpose of these objects in under an hour, identifying random things such as hair curlers that were powered by electricity, compact devices that served as a telephone and a telegraph which operated without wires and futuristic phonographs that played music from shiny discs.

One morning, I awoke to music the likes of which I had never heard before. Following the noise, I found Sherlock experimenting with a strange object in the sitting room. Standing on a base that was made of that strange smooth material that Sherlock had been fruitlessly trying to chemically analyze was a writhing creature that superficially resembled an alligator that was covered in that poorly made artificial fur which had been dyed green, except on the abdominal area where it had been dyed yellow. Set in front of a pair of artificial eyes which would've given a taxidermist fits were a pair of spectacles with darkened lenses.

As the creature writhed in Sherlock's hands, the cheerful and upbeat music that I had heard upon awakening emitted from the base of the object.

"Holmes, what is that?" I asked.

"Aside from the fact that it is battery powered, plays only one song, and is meant to resemble an alligator, I do not know." Sherlock replied as he set the object on his overcrowded desk where it writhed in an approximation of a tribal dance of some sort.

For the entire week following this incident, the strange object exhorted me to not worry and to be happy every time I passed it.


	4. December 4th

**From KnightFury:**

**4 - snowed in **

The fire was dying and all of the wood in the frigid cabin had run out. Holmes had offered to brave the freezing cold outdoors in order to get more. Dressing in the fur coat that he had purchased at the last outpost of civilization that the duo had encountered, Holmes turned to leave over Watson's protests, knowing that the man's arm and leg were near useless in this weather. Opening the door, he found himself confronted by a solid wall of white.

"Watson, remind me to never again chase a criminal all the way to Siberia." Holmes said as he started to dig a tunnel in the snow which completely blocked the door of the cabin.

Watson mentally added Siberia to a list of places which included several locations in the Americas, two Asian countries, and half the continent of Africa that Holmes had sworn to never return to, knowing full well that if a case warranted it they would be back in a heartbeat.


	5. December 5th

**From cjnwriter:**

**Dec 5: Mrs. Hudson is in danger**

"Holmes, this is all your fault!" I yelled over the frightened shrieks and what sounded suspiciously like words no woman of Mrs. Hudson's caliber should know.

"Stop blaming me and pull the poor woman inside!" Holmes yelled at me as he raced towards the window that Mrs. Hudson shouldn't have been dangling out of, in danger of dashing her head on the pavement below.

I, being the closer, grabbed Mrs. Hudson's ankles before she completely unbalanced and tipped outside. With a prodigious effort, Holmes and I managed to haul our poor housekeeper back into the flat. The woman who barely had the presence of mind to straighten her skirts into some semblance of propriety was near-hysterical due to the ordeal.

As I did my best to calm our housekeeper, Holmes quietly dismantled the pillow cannon he'd constructed out of sheer boredom. Despite the fact that the results had been completely unintended, it had apparently served its purpose.


	6. December 6th

**From Spockologist:**

**6. Mrs Hudson fakes her death**

"Oh my goodness!" Watson yelled when he came upon the gruesome scene in the sitting-room.

Mrs. Hudson was dangling from a surprisingly sturdy light fixture just out of reach of the chair beneath her which rested just beneath her dangling toes. Her head was lolled to one side, and her eyes were closed. Rather than looking as if she'd spent her final moments straining for breath as hanging victims often did, she looked...bored.

It took Watson less than the two seconds it took to cross the room and reach the poor woman to process this scene. Moments later, there was chaos as he realized that the housekeeper was still alive as he was pulling her from the noose. In the commotion, Mrs. Hudson kicked the chair beneath her backwards and for a moment, she was really hanging.

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson was gotten down and set in an armchair in front of the fire with a large brandy. As she sat, she rubbed her feet and ankles.

"I haven't stood on the tips of my toes like that in a long time." Mrs. Hudson said as she rubbed her apparently sore feet. "I'd forgotten how much it hurt."

"Holmes, where the devil are you going?" Watson asked as he saw the detective who had staged the scene Watson had come home to attempt to slink out the door unnoticed.

"To inform the Yard that we are dealing with a suicide, and that the suspect they have in custody should be released." Holmes said as he headed out the door.


	7. December 7th

**From mrspencil and Ennui Enigma:**

**7/ A walk in the park**

"It'd be easy he said." Watson muttered darkly. "It would be a walk in the park he said."

It literally was supposed to be a walk in a park, a park that contained evidence that was vital to the case. It turned out to be like stealing candy from a baby however, meaning a great deal of screaming and chaos while you're surrounded by a number of people who would dearly like to string you up.

The evidence that Holmes had sent him in search of had already been found. By a six year-old. By a six year-old with a massive dog with a protective streak a mile wide for a pet. A six year-old with a massive dog which had taken a dislike of his attempts to retrieve said evidence from the child.

He was sure the people who witnessed the incident would stop saying that he should be ashamed of himself and the creature would let him out of the tree eventually.


	8. December 8th

**From Galaxy1001D:**

**Dec 8th: Write a story where Irene Adler encounters an extremely drunk Holmes and Watson**.

Irene Norton nee Adler had thought she'd been well shot of a certain detective after her marriage and subsequent move to America. That was apparently not the case, seeing as she had ended up running into the man and his assistant while passing through Minnesota for an engagement. Apparently Mr. Holmes and the good Doctor Watson had been helping a bartender solve mysteries and the man had decided to repay the duo by giving them a few or perhaps a few dozen for the road.

"There she is." Holmes said, weaving unsteadily. "The Woman. The only bitch who has managed to outsmart me so far!"

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, apparently still sober enough to be scandalized.

"I've been called worse by better men than you." she said to the detective, ignoring Watson's attempts to pull his friend away. She was not going to let that comment sting, especially since it was a backhanded compliment of sorts.

She heard the Doctor slur "I thought you loved her." as she sharply turned and walked away. As she exited the car which contained the duo, she heard Holmes drunkenly reply "My good man, when have you ever seen me show an inclination toward the fairer sex? Or either sex for that matter?".

Knowing that Watson was either too good or too stupid a man to let Sherlock Holmes die cold and alone a wreck of what he once was, she continued down the train and made her way back to her husband's side. Her marriage to Godfrey wasn't merely one of convenience, and she hoped that one day Holmes would manage to do the impossible himself and find someone he loved as much as she loved her husband, even if only to save poor Doctor Watson the burden in his twilight years.


	9. December 9th

**From cjnwriter:**

**Dec 9: Building a snowman**

_Doctor Who Crossover. I make no apologies:_

When I confuse my dates, it is not out of a muddled memory on either the part of myself or my agent as many suspect. More often than not, it is an extra measure of protection to further disguise a client who has sought the services of one Sherlock Holmes. While the singular events that took place in the Winter of 1892 appear to be in the middle of Holmes' three-year absence, I will assure you that they were not.

Many will recall the events that briefly rocked London shortly following that Christmas when the search for a number of laborers that was sizable enough even for this city which could swallow armies whole to notice who had gone missing had turned up nothing more than a blood and slush spattered courtyard. The cause of this atrocity which had been perpetrated by none other than the late Walter Simeon is so fantastic that I am relegating this tale to my dispatch box until a time when evidence which would back up my claims may be available. Until the day that this account may see the light of day, the explanation as to the ultimate fate of these poor men that had been related to the public by Inspector Lestrade shall suffice.

Holmes and I stumbled on the actual cause of the demise of the poor workers who had met their fate behind the gates of the Great Intelligence Institute several days before we were handed the case by worried friends and family who knew that something must be amiss because their loved ones would be loath to miss Christmas dinner no matter how meager an affair it might be considering their financial straits. We were on the periphery of events which didn't involve us, especially after we'd discovered that Madam Vastra and her housekeeper were on the case, having learned long ago that it is wise to keep out of her territory and away from her clients. Clients who usually called upon the so-called "Lizard Woman from the Dawn of Time" for matters that are usually outside the expertise of Holmes and myself.

Unfortunately, since I have gone through an intermediary to have my annals published in order to reduce the number of crank callers that Holmes and myself receive, many around London have come to believe that the exploits of Holmes and myself were actually those of Madam Vastra and her housekeeper and vice versa. Further clouding matters is the fact that my literary agent who has also acted as an editor has gotten some of our exploits mixed up himself. This has caused some problems in the past, especially since it was Madam Vastra and one of her associates who dealt with the red leech and the so-called Giant Rat of Sumatra, which means that I have as much an idea as the man on the street about these incidents which I have been repeatedly asked about by the general public.

It was on the evening of the twenty-third of December that this most singular incident took place. As Holmes and I were walking home from another case involving a jewel thief and the murder of a rather infamous prostitute, Holmes paused in front of a snowman and studied it intently. It was a rather grotesque thing which, rather than adding a hint of Christmas cheer to the benighted region through which we were traversing, added a more sinister aura to its surroundings.

"Watson, come have a look at this!" Holmes exclaimed as he peered at what I had assumed to be the leavings of children at play, children who had been enjoying what little of their childhood they could in such a neighborhood.

As I moved forward to see what had so fascinated my companion, I heard a most curious sound behind me. Had a shrub grown all in an instant, it might've made such a sound. Whirling around to see what could have made such a noise, I found myself facing a snowman that had not been there a moment before.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, startled by this unusual development.

Turning to see what the matter was, Holmes was nearly as surprised as I to see the snowman which had seemingly sprung from the ground. A moment later, the sound was again repeated as a third snowman sprung up to the left of Holmes. Soon, there was another and another until we were quite surrounded. As Holmes and I found ourselves surrounded by snowmen who had seemingly sprung from nowhere and stood as if they had been there the entire time that the both of us passed through the small side-street that was little more than an alley, my heart began to race as old instincts from Afghanistan began to kick in, and I barely noticed the ache in my shoulder and my leg which the cold had brought on.

Without warning, the snowmen turned into something even more sinister and grotesque as their faces were suddenly split with wide grins. Wide grins full of incredibly sharp looking teeth. A moment later, the creatures of ice and snow moved in for the kill as if in a feeding frenzy. Had neither Holmes nor I been armed, we would most assuredly have died on that cold and lonely street. Fortunately, both Holmes and myself were carrying exceedingly stout walking sticks which we had brought with us in case our murderous jewel-thief had chosen to struggle in his attempts to avoid the hangman's noose.

I know little of what followed as I was too filled with adrenaline and the memories of my escape from the murderous snowmen have since conflated themselves with those of a particularly traumatic skirmish I had been involved in more than a decade earlier, but Holmes and I somehow managed to escape, much the worse for wear than we had been when we had wearily departed from the aftermath of our previous case with only thoughts of a good supper and perhaps a good night's sleep following. Neither Holmes nor myself ever managed to get to sleep that night after we had trudged into 221B Baker Street and Holmes tossed his coat into the rubbish bin, giving it up for a lost cause. A sizable portion of that evening had been spent stitching up injuries that had proven that the teeth of the self-replicating snowmen were as sharp as they had looked.

Three days later, as Holmes and I painfully hobbled through the courtyard of what was left of the Great Intelligence Institute and saw the traces of a massacre that had left behind only a few spatters of blood and a few slivers of bone amidst a few puddles of slush, we both counted ourselves fortunate. We never told Inspector Lestrade exactly what had caused the deaths of the poor men whose bodies had vanished like snow on a warm spring day, but there had been enough evidence that Walter Simeon had indeed hired the men who had gone missing that the man had come up with something plausible to tell the people who had heard screams of pain and torment coming from the area on the night of the 23rd of December 1892, something plausible and lurid enough for the press who were better able to scent blood than even the hungriest of sharks.

There is no doubt in either Holmes' or my mind as to what caused the deaths of those poor workers on that cold December night, but the world as a whole would not be ready to accept the reality of carnivorous snowmen unless there were more proof of such things. Proof that I am certain that Madam Vastra's mysterious partner who goes by the moniker of "The Doctor" whom Holmes has claimed has turned up randomly throughout history undoubtedly has. Having survived this incident which has claimed the lives of many men, I shall never be able to look upon a snowman the same way ever again.


	10. December 10th

**From Spockologist:**

**10. A lost locket**

"Holmes, have you seen my...?" Watson asked as he came from his room where he had been searching for an item he had inherited from his mother which had disappeared from his small collection of family heirlooms.

"It is here Watson." Holmes said, gesturing to the small gold locket that rested on Holmes' overcrowded desk, yet another object that the man had taken from him without permission.

Storming across the sitting-room, he snatched up the aged locket which contained the miniature of his maternal grandfather who had died when his mother was an infant. The image had been painted by his maternal grandmother who had become involved with the man despite the fact that he had been involved with someone else. His mother didn't know his name, because her mother had refused to reveal it, preferring to consider the man she later married to be his mother's father. All she had of the man who had sired her was that locket which had been passed down to him.

"Watson," Holmes said, causing him to pause on his way out of the room "Exactly when did your maternal grandfather die?"

Figures. Rather than apologize for stepping out of bounds, Holmes was trying to solve whatever mystery he'd thought he'd discovered. He should've known better to expect an apology from the man following any situation that wasn't life threatening.

"Sometime in the late twenties I believe." he replied, knowing that if he didn't humor Holmes, the man would relentlessly pursue the answer until he got a satisfactory reply.

"I see." Holmes said, setting the sheaf of yellowed papers he'd been looking through down on his desk.

Deciding that the matter wasn't important and wasn't worth having words with Holmes over, he turned to return the locket to its previous resting place.

"Were you aware of the fact that you are the grandson of William Burke?" Holmes called out behind him.

Trust Holmes to ferret out every nasty secret hidden in a man's family tree; even the ones that said man didn't know and would rather never have known.


	11. December 11th

**From SheWhoScrawls:**

**December 11: Outbreak of disease **

At first it started with sniffles, then stuffed sinuses, coughing, and fevers. Those who caught it would be laid up for days, and the weakest amongst them often succumbed. Hitting both the rich and the poor, felling a nobleman just as easily as a Chinaman, it did not discriminate. Many who lived from payday to payday, scraping out a life at the edges of starvation could not afford to fall ill in such a manner.

The ill came to the door at all hours seeking what succor a medical professional could provide.

"Goodness," Watson said as he caught his breath between calls, many of which came from the pack of urchins Holmes kept in his employ "These days, my clients outnumber yours ten to one!"

"Watson," Holmes said from where he was resting on the sitting-room sofa. "Don't put your bag up just yet, I'm afraid that I shall be one of those clients momentarily."


	12. December 12th

**From ME!: **

**Kiss with a fist**

"Ow! Ow! Ow!" Watson exclaimed from behind the handkerchief that he had hastily pressed against his bleeding lip.

Had he been the actual target of the blow that had caught him by surprise, he would have been literally spitting teeth rather than tending to a split lip. As it was, he had been a touch too close to the intended target, and a portion of the force of the blow which would've otherwise felled the man he'd been struggling with had been transferred to him when Holmes' fist had brushed past him mid-swing.

"I'm sorry Watson!" Holmes said as he led his friend to a convenient seat while the Yard led off the ruffian who had received the rest of the force of the blow Watson had taken.

Said ruffian had turned his aggression towards him rather than been stunned or felled as he had intended. It had taken another several blows before the man had been subdued enough for the police to apprehend him. Now that the situation had been dealt with, it was time to tend to his partner since his injuries weren't life threatening.

Now that the high of having solved the mystery had begun to fade, the guilt over his carelessness began to settle in.

"It's alright Holmes, I know that you didn't mean to." Watson said with a slight lisp due to his injury.

"It's not alright. I'm afraid that one day it might not be a simple blow to the face." Holmes replied.

"I have complete faith in you." Watson said, his eyes holding complete trust despite the situation.

"Your lip appears to have stopped bleeding." Holmes said after pulling the handkerchief away to examine the injury.


	13. December 13th

**From Wordwielder:**

**13) God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman**

Watson found himself waking up to a rather excellent rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman that was being sung in a deep, rich baritone much to his surprise. Part of this surprise was due to the fact that he knew for certain that that was not the voice of his flatmate Sherlock Holmes coming from the sitting room.

The voice didn't appear to belong to Gregson, Lestrade, or any other male acquaintance of his or Holmes, including some of the older Irregulars. Worried that someone had broken into the flat for nefarious purposes and half-afraid of what he would find, he didn't take the time to dress and instead threw a dressing gown on over his pyjamas, only barely pausing to tuck his revolver into his pocket on his way to the sitting room.

Moments later, he found himself standing and staring in shock in the doorway of the sitting room as Mycroft Holmes decorated a small tree which had been set atop Holmes' desk which had been swept clear of the random array of detritus that had accrued upon its surface. Everything which had been on the desk had been swept to the floor in order to provide room for said tree which Mycroft was decorating with a long string of brightly colored glass beads.

"Happy Christmas Doctor Watson!" the elder Holmes said without turning around or even pausing in his task.

Realizing that it would probably be rude to ask his flatmate's older brother what he was doing here, especially on Christmas morning when family tended to gather, he instead turned his inquiry towards the unusual ornamentation with which the elder Holmes was adorning the tree.

"Sherlock made it when he was seven." Mycroft said almost proudly as he wound the last of the string's length around the lowest branches of the diminutive tree. "He was always making such things when he was younger, proving that he had inherited the artistic streak that rand through Grand-mere Vernet's family."

Watson had to admit that the string of beads that was wrapped around the tree was quite beautiful. The colors all complimented each-other perfectly.


	14. December 14th

**From Galaxy1001D:**

**Dec 14: Write a story where Holmes offends Watson and spends the rest of the story trying to get back into his good graces.**

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare apologize!" Watson snapped at Holmes as he stroked the body of the bulldog which had been a young pup when he had moved in with Holmes back in 1881.

He'd fished it out of the trash. The trash!

Fifteen years of companionship, and Sherlock had thrown Gladstone's aged body away as if it were garbage when he had come downstairs and discovered that the dog had stopped breathing for the final time sometime during the night while they had slept. After fifteen years of loyalty, the only eulogy that the poor dog who had survived experiments, intruders, and Mary's young cousins had received was "Watson, you might want to go out and get another dog, the old one died."

He knew that Holmes could often be insensitive, emotion was to him as grit was to a fine scientific instrument. The man who had seen how people often cared for their pets as if they were actual members of their own families should've realized that he held Gladstone in similar regard had risen to new heights that day however. The least he could've done in the situation was display at least a modicum of tact.

After realizing that he'd made a rather egregious error, Holmes had attempted to make up for what he had done, even going so far as to act as lookout when he had surreptitiously buried Gladstone under a tree in his favorite park. He was having none of it however. Gladstone had deserved better than Holmes had done to him upon discovering his passing, even if it was what Holmes' father had had done to his few childhood pets following their passing.

At the end of the week following Gladstone's demise, following a constant litany of apologies, Holmes offered up one final insult. Coming home following a rather easy case which may well have been a fiction to explain his absence, Holmes pulled a small dog with markings similar to those of Gladstone out of his pocket. Turning away from the animal that he refused to even consider as a replacement for Gladstone, Watson walked back to his room and slammed the door.

"What did I do this time?" Holmes asked no-one in particular as he held the juvenile bulldog which he had procured at considerable expense to himself.

"If you don't know, I won't tell you." Mrs. Hudson said coldly before smiling fondly at the small dog and feeding it a scrap of meat from dinner.


	15. December 15th

**Subject: 15th Dec Prompt**

**From mrspencil and Ennui Enigma:**

**15/ Time is running out, will Watson save the day?**

Watson had known that he'd left things too long, but he'd received a couple emergency calls during the hours in which he'd planned on executing this particular task, and the housecall he'd just made to Mrs. Finnegan who was experiencing a difficult pregnancy had lasted longer than he'd expected. Jumping out of the hansom cab, he overpaid the cabbie in his haste before he dashed down the block at full speed.

It was all to no avail however, because the instant he reached the door, the proprietor had switched the sign from open to closed and no amount of frantic knocking had changed this fact for him.

"I'm sorry Holmes," he said when he returned home empty-handed, feeling guilty as he shied away from the expectant expression on his flatmate's face "The chemist's was closed."


	16. December 16th

**From ME!:**

**Holmes has an unlikely fear/phobia**

"Shoot it! Shoot it! Shoot it! Shoot it!"

Watson turned to stare at his friend in surprise. He had never seen Sherlock Holmes lose his cool like that in all the years he'd known him. The normally unflappable man was half-way up a tree looking spooked. The source of this highly unusual behaviour sat on the ground calmly going about its business as if Holmes had never encountered it and wasn't demanding its execution however.

"I'm not going to shoot the rabbit Holmes." Watson said as he walked over to the cat-sized creature and shooed it away.

When they got home, Watson went to Mycroft for enlightenment.

"It really was an unfortunate incident." Mycroft said with a wince as his mind drifted to some far-off place in his and Sherlock's shared history that the doctor wasn't privy to. "Many people forget that rabbits have sharp teeth and claws. Being three at the time, that day left a rather disproportionate impact on him, but he's never made the same mistake again."


	17. December 17th

**From I'm Nova:**

**17) If that hadn't happened...**

"Holmes, what do you think your life would be like if we'd never met?"

"I would probably have been murdered by one of the police long-ago, despite the fact that I'm useful to them. You wouldn't believe the number of ruffled feathers you have smoothed down over the years. Lestrade has attempted to strangle me on two occasions despite the assistance you've provided."

"Holmes!"

"Considering how incompetent and unimaginative the police generally are, I have a feeling that my murder would never be solved, even by those who weren't involved in the actual commission of it."

"I don't think that's why it wouldn't be solved Holmes. The police do get it right sometimes."


	18. December 18th

**From SheWhoScrawls:**

**December 18: The jolly roger**

"I'm sorry for being less than honest about my reasons for asking you to accompany me to the pub last night Watson, and my hinting that you were an avid pursuer of certain pastimes, but the Jolly Roger only caters to a...certain sort of clientele." Holmes said to a furiously blushing Watson who was clutching a fire poker.

"And, that was the second potential suitor who has called on me today!" Watson yelled plaintively.

There was a knock at the door below.

"If that's another man who thinks I'm available for...for...for something unmentionable, I'm going to kill you Holmes!" Watson who was still breathing heavily from turning away the last visitor exclaimed.

As it turned out, the visitor was not another suitor for Watson, it was Lestrade and a young constable who looked exceedingly nervous about being in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. For some strange reason Watson seemed to find him familiar. It was as Lestrade was wrapping up his summary of the case that was being presented that Watson realized why. He barely recognized the young man now that he was wearing normal clothes rather than the dress he had been wearing onstage the night before.

"You won't be telling me mum about...?" the young Constable asked as soon as Lestrade departed.

"Watson and I are always discreet." Holmes replied in an almost conspiratorial manner.

"Holmes, you haven't just implied...?!" Watson exclaimed, looking horrified.

"Implied what?" Sherlock asked. "We are discreet in all matters that are best left confidential."

"...And, I've been wondering why the men have been snickering behind our backs every time anything I say might be taken out of context." Watson groaned.


	19. December 19th

**From Spockologist:**

**19. Moriarty dresses up as Santa Claus**

Months before the incident that I believed to be the death of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I encountered Moriarty without realizing. It was only later that I learned that the man I encountered that Christmas was Professor James Moriarty. Seeing him so out of context, I would not have believed it to be Moriarty if Holmes hadn't told me it was him. Of course, knowing it now, it explains the odd thing he had said during the encounter.

Holmes and I had been walking through one of the poorer districts of London in search of a criminal who had stolen something rather valuable when we encountered a sizable crowd of street urchins gathered around a man who had been dressed as Father Christmas who was handing out food to the half-starved urchins. Rather than making a cynical remark about this act of kindness in relation to the rapidly approaching day on which the goodwill of all men should be foremost on our minds, Holmes waded through the crowd of frostbitten unwashed children and seized the man by his arm.

The man had looked at Holmes coldly and shook his arm out of my friend's firm grasp.

"I don't know what motives you have ascribed to me today, but I'm not completely heartless Mr. Holmes." the man said in a voice that was pure ice. "Even the coldest of men could be motivated to be charitable in this season, and I doubt you would want my charity to go to waste when it could benefit all these children Holmes."

Looking out on the sea of faces belonging to children who were hopefully waiting for Father Christmas' beneficence, Holmes had released the man's arm and stalked back towards me.

"I shall capture that blackguard one day, but apparently not today." Holmes had said, sounding defeated and not too happy about it.

The man dressed as Father Christmas had resumed handing out food by this point, coldly watching Holmes and I until the both of us finally made our way out of sight as he did so.


	20. December 20th

**From Galaxy1001D:**

**Dec 20: Write a story where Holmes and Moriarty engage in petty one upmanship**.

It was a small bar in Russia. At one end of the bar was a dark haired man with sharp hawklike features. At the other, was a grey haired man with vaguely reptilian features. It being around midday, the bar was virtually empty aside from the bartender and a small crowd of travelers who were soon to depart on the next leg of their journey.

The dark-haired man gestured for a drink. The grey-haired man gestured for two. Soon, the drinks were consumed and the men were gesturing for more drinks. the dark-haired man gesturing for three and the grey haired man for four.

Things continued in this manner until both men were too drunk to order.

"I win!" the dark-haired man said before passing out.

"No, I win!" the grey-haired man slurred.

"I'm up by...by..." he continued, counting on his fingers.

Moments later, the grey-haired man was sacked out sleeping it off as well.


	21. December 21st

**From KnightFury:**

**21 - carol singers**

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, scandalized.

Holmes hastily backed away from the window from which the screams of sodden and quite possibly slightly burnt carolers could be heard, and almost guiltily set down the pitcher which had contained hot wassail before the carolers who had congregated beneath the window of 221B had been liberally doused with it.

"I'm sorry, but I've always wanted to do that. Ever since Mycroft..." Holmes replied.

Watson had a feeling that the story that was to follow would both explain everything and nothing about the Holmes brothers. However, just like every other incident, Holmes was interrupted before he could continue and he never picked up his tale again.

This time, the story was ended by a furiously glaring Mrs. Hudson from whom Holmes had pilfered the wassail.


	22. December 22nd

**From Wordweilder:**

**22) Mrs. Hudson worries the boys won't like her presents.**

Mrs. Hudson sighed. Having been busy from dawn to dusk for the last several weeks, she'd barely had time to get presents for her friends and family and send them out. It was three days before Christmas when she realized that she'd forgotten the presents for her boarders. It being an incredibly busy time, she had no time to shop on top of her other duties. Fortunately, Mrs. Turner next door had some spare yarn that she'd let her have.

After staying up for forty-eight hours straight, an incredibly tired Mrs. Hudson was finished with her presents for the Great Detective and his ever-faithful Boswell. Sure, she'd dropped more stitches than she could count, but she was finished.

The thing was, she didn't think either man would like the pink knitted wool hats she had made for them.


	23. December 23rd

**From Alosha135:**

**23rd - snuggles **

Watson smiled, happy to be on the couch snuggling with his ever-faithful companion who was looking at him with complete adoration. It was rare that he got to do this, so he was determined to enjoy it for as long as he could before the moment was ruined, quite likely by a case that would have them off and running.

As he was beginning to think that they might spend the rest of the evening that way since it was incredibly relaxing, Sherlock Holmes walked in and ruined it.

"Watson!" the man exclaimed. "Get that dog off the couch, you know how Mrs. Hudson gets about the furniture!"


	24. December 24th

**From mrspencil and Ennui Enigma:**

**24/ Holmes and Watson solve an African mystery**

"The culprit I am afraid is the man who came under the pretenses of being a man of God. He may have actually been one at one time, but that is no-longer the case." Sherlock Holmes said, ending a long and difficult case that had seen him and his companion suffering under the heat of a sweltering sun and being chased by all manner of creatures from lions to an angry Australian prospector who had been upset by their tresspassing in their territory.

"Mr. Wilkins had come up with this dastardly plot in order to drive the tribe that is native to this region away after he had discovered diamonds on the land they were occupying." Holmes continued. "Mrs. Edgecome had discovered this, and it had cost her her life."

With that, the local authorities siezed the missionary who had murdered a number of natives and a fellow missionary whose death had brought the matter to the attention of Sherlock Holmes.

"It'll be the noose for that blackguard, and no fellow deserved it more." Holmes said as he looked at the blighted crops which had been poisoned by the man who was being led away, blighted crops which were a sign of hard times to come for the poor people who had welcomed Mr. Wilkins onto their land.


	25. December 25th (Merry Christmas)

**From Wordwielder:**

**25) Christmas dinner at 221B **

Watson sighed as he tiredly shoveled food into his mouth, barely tasting the traditional fare which had become mere sustinance when he and Holmes had dragged themselves into their flat and fell upon the feast which Mrs. Hudson had prepared for them like a pack of ravenous wolves. He was cold, and sore, and bone tired as was his companion. Fortunately, the remedy for each of these ills was around him.

"Happy Christmas Watson." Holmes said tiredly from the opposite end of the table where he had been shoveling in Christmas goose as if it were about to fly away.

"Happy Christmas Holmes." Watson said equally tiredly.

It was an unfortunate fact that crime didn't stop for Christmas, and if one were to catch the criminals that would escape without their intervention, you yourself couldn't stop for Christmas either.


	26. December 26th (Happy Birthday to Me)

**From ME!:**

**Empty**

Holmes was dead more than two years, Mary just recently. It had been the first time in a long time that Watson had been left in a home that was empty save for him on Christmas. Having little to look forward to and nobody to share it with, it was understandable that his thoughts had turned grim that Christmas. Fortunately, Watson was the sort who pushed through every adversity, and despite his pain and his grief, he didn't become another Christmas suicide.

As Watson was setting out a box for his kitchen maid/cleaning lady, there was a knock at the door. Answering it, he found Lestrade on the stoop.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have gotten here yesterday," the policeman said. "I got caught up in family matters and had to arrest two of my wife's brothers for disorderly conduct."

Lestrade was the first of several of the late Sherlock Holmes' acquaintances to arrive, each of which had been tangled in some sort of drama the day before, including Gregson who had hobbled in on crutches, just beginning to recover from an accident that had involved a neighborhood dog and his Christmas tree.

Apparently, he hadn't been as forgotten as he'd thought.


	27. December 27th

**From Book girl fan:**

**27: The bloodied knife**

The coppery tang of spilled blood hung sickeningly in the air. Looking about, Watson could see signs of a struggle. A body lay on the floor, the body of a good friend. Looking about, Watson found the instrument of Sherlock Holmes' demise carelessly dropped on the floor leading to one of the bedrooms where there were signs of hasty dressing and a hasty washing-up.

"The intruder was known to you." Watson said as he stood over the prone form of his friend. "There were no signs of forced entry, and the struggle didn't start until the intruder was within inches of your usual chair. The fight was short, but you were eventually overpowered and stabbed through the heart with the jackknife from the mantlepiece. The intruder then went into my room, washed up, and left wearing one of my suits."

"Better than last time Watson." Holmes said. "But, the knife wasn't the murder weapon."

"What was?" Watson asked his friend who was rising from the floor.

"That." Holmes said, pointing to the drawer where Watson usually kept his revolver.

"But the knife..." Watson started.

"I obviously managed to stab my attacker who you'll find to be grievously injured when you find him." Holmes replied.

"That's the third time you had me kill you Holmes, and this time you've managed to kill me as well." Watson said with a shake of his head.

"The murderer is quite often the one closest to the victim." Holmes replied.

**"**Why can't you have Lestrade or Gregson kill you? I know it's been their dearest wish more times than I can count." Watson said almost petulantly.

"Perhaps next time." Holmes said absently. "We'd better get this cleaned up quickly before Mrs. Hudson discovers that I've poured pig's blood on her carpets again."

"It's a good thing she's out, otherwise there'd be a real murder." Watson said as he gathered Holmes' correspondence, set it upon the mantlepiece and cleaned off the jacknife before spearing it through the letters.


	28. December 28th

**From SheWhoScrawls:**

**December 28: The Baker Street Irregulars encounter a yeti while out snooping for Holmes.**

They had searched high and low for the man who had been missing for three days. He had told Watson that he'd be back on the fifteenth, and it was now the eighteenth. It had been Wiggins' suggestion to check one of the underground rail lines that was under construction. It was an unexpected place to hide, therefore it would be perfect if one were being persued.

As they wandered the dark tunnels after hours, pushing the lantern that Doctor Watson had so thoughtfully lent them into each dark corner, half afraid that they would find a grievously wounded Sherlock Holmes lurkong in front of them, little Peterson ran into something large and furry. Peterson's scream of shock and terror had been everyone's cue to run.

Eventually, curiosity and sense of duty won out over fear and the boys gathered and returned to the spot where Peterson had run into the massive brown creature, half-afraid that it had gotten Holmes and that it would get them too. Rather than having gone off in search of them as they thought it would, the creature was standing where it had been left, completely stock still as if it were a taxidermy animal. The creature's eyes were dark and dead and reflective as glass.

"Someone must've left it down here as a prank." Wiggins decided after the creature continued to not move.

Laughing in relief, the boys began to feel foolish and needled the others for running, commenting that they were braver than whichever boy they chose to point out and that they'd only left because everyone else had done so and that they hadn't wanted to be left without the lantern. Before a brawl could break out, a wind blew through the tunnel which had previously been dead calm and a loud wheezing grinding noise could be heard.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, the boys rounded the nearest corner which was in the opposite direction of what they had decided was the source of the sound which was difficult to pinpoint in the echoing tunnel. Eventually, the noise stopped, and the bravest of the boys peered around the corner trying to see what had appeared in the dark. Without warning, a door opened and a bright shaft of light pierced the darkness, nearly blinding the boys who had grown used to the dim light of the smoky lantern. Two men stepped through the doorway, one a man with close-cropped hair who was wearing a strange looking leather jacket, and the other Sherlock Holmes.

"Here you are, only three hours late." the man with the short black hair who spoke with a Northern accent said.

"Thank you." Holmes replied, before walking off and nearly running into the large and furry creature that Peterson had run into.

"What the devil is this?!" Holmes exclaimed.

The man in the leather jacket came running, practically skidding to a stop before the creature. After looking stunned for a few seconds, he began to examine it alongside Holmes. Based on how he was doing so, it was apparent that he knew what the creature was, whereas Holmes did not.

"You're early, very early." the man said after his examination, sounding curious. "Though, I wonder what deactivated you..."


	29. December 29th

**From Galaxy1001D:**

**Dec 29: Write a story where Holmes and Watson discover that someone has stolen their tent. There should be an explanation for this strange crime by the end of the story.**

The joke about Holmes and Watson, a lesson in deduction, and a stolen tent was popular for a good long time. Probably because the incident had actually happened, and it had happened in front of witnesses who had spread it far and wide. Namely the tent thieves themselves.

Considering how sleepy Watson was since he'd just been woken out of a sound slumber, the fact that there hadn't been much of a change in temperature after the tent was stolen since it was a surprisingly warm night, and the fact that Holmes had been giving Watson "pop quizzes" in the art of Deduction for months until the man was fed up with them, it was somewhat understandable that the man hadn't noticed that the tent had been stolen at first. Of course, the increasingly incredulous expression on Holmes' face as Watson continued to ignore the fact that the tent was gone as he tried to give Holmes the answer he thought the man wanted so he could get back to sleep had been absolutely priceless, as Lestrade could attest.

The next morning, Lestrade and Gregson returned the tent and the prank war continued until Mrs. Hudson had finally stepped in and stopped it a month later.

_For the few of you who don't know the Joke:_

_In the middle of the night, Holmes woke Watson up and told him to look up and tell him what he saw. Watson, looking up, saw the stars. After waxing poetically on the subject and the meaning of the stars for a while, he turned to Holmes and asked "What do you see?" to which Holmes replies "That someone has stolen our tent!"_


	30. December 30th

**From Alosha135:**

**30th - use the phrases: "I'm squished" "Don't touch that" and "I need a hatpin". Bonus if the person saying the last line is male**

A closet. They'd all been shoved into a closet. But, cooperating had seemed better than dying at the madman with the strange gun at the time. He didn't know how the man had devised the gun that could fire ten rounds a second and craft it from parts that could be found in the manor, but it had appeared to work when fired at the portrait above the mantelpiece.

"I'm squished." the woman who had hired Holmes said from behind Watson.

"I'm sorry." Watson replied, truly sorry that there had been nothing he could do since neither he nor Holmes had been expecting this sort of trouble and he'd left his revolver at home.

Deciding that his stay in the storage closet would be easier if he shifted the box that was poking him in the back, Watson moved his hands behind him to do so.

"Don't touch that!" Holmes who had divined Watson's intentions exclaimed.

"Why not?" Watson asked as the box shifted to a more comfortable position.

He got his answer two seconds later when the stack the box was in the middle of destabilized and he was bludgeoned in the head by a corrugated cardboard box which had been filled with crockery for some reason.

As the lady of the house tended to Watson's injury as best she could under the circumstances, Holmes who had remained by the door said "I believe our captor has finally departed. I'll need a hatpin for the lock."

After their lady employer had surrendered the requested object, Holmes had once again proved that he would've made an excellent criminal had his inclinations lain in that direction and made short work of the lock on the closet door.

After the trio had armed themselves with weapons that could best be described as family heirlooms, the criminal was soon apprehended, and his weapon had been given to government officials for study over Holmes' numerous objections.


	31. December 31st (Happy 2014 to everyone)

**From I'm Nova:**

**31) New Year resolutions.**

December was ticking down. This being the last December of the Nineteenth century, Watson's mind had naturally turned to the subject of making his life anew. It was after all a time of wonders when new things that would revolutionize the world appeared with each passing day, and soon it would be a new century as well.

Resolving to eat more healthily and to brush up on his medical studies rather than to leave the medical journals that had been piling up languishing much like his medical practice while he hared off on another adventure with Holmes, he turned to his friend who was reading the advertisements in a paper from some place called Minneapolis.

"Holmes, do you have any resolutions for the coming year?" he asked.

"No." Holmes replied without once looking up from the two week-old American newspaper that he'd somehow acquired.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because, nobody knows what the future will bring them and all the resolutions in the world would be completely useless if I die tomorrow." Holmes replied.

"That's an incredibly negative way to view the world." he said.

"And, making promises you have little to no intention to fulfill is a waste of time." Holmes said. "You may swear to eat more healthily or partake of more aerobic exercise, and you might do it for a month or so, but you'll eventually fall back into old habits and will have nothing to show for it but wasted time and a feeling of guilt over your failure. It is better to acknowledge that you will do little to change over the course of the coming year just as you've changed very little during the year before and take each day as it comes for good or ill."

Sighing, Watson turned back to the book he had started reading before he'd gotten distracted. Trust Holmes to say the wrong thing with little regards for the feelings of others, and trust it to be all the more horrible because it was the truth. While he would like to eat more healthily, the truth was that he had an incredible fondness for Mrs. Hudson's cooking, and while he would like to build up his practice and improve it, he knew full well that if Holmes ever asked him to come with him he would drop everything and follow. That was just the sort of person he was.

So much for New Year's resolutions...


End file.
